Marvin Crushler Discusses Poetry.

*Editor's Note: Our man Marvin Crushler lives in Italy. He's been there so long he speaks a weird English/Italian hybrid. Dude eats squash risotto so often his body doesn't even digest it anymore. I added this image to illustrate his tale of poetry torture.


Napoli super arts magazine would like to thank Lanificio 25 for the trashiest poetry experience in all the world. We were herded into a beautiful ancient room in the splendid context of the old wool factory of Naples only to be tortured by the worst show my chest and splendid soft curls type poetry ever read.

The rules were fierce, nobody could leave the room because everybody wanted only to run. The poetry guy moved around the room like a tiger with his favorite poetry shirt on, he lashed out with a microphone so badly tuned that you could only hear half of every tragic word with his poetry buddy behind him the whole time, backin him up with a cello and some cd of "tragic civil war corpse scene backgroud music volume 5" The poet started to sweat and I started to cry, I moved to the door and a foriegn woman standing guard said "you cannot leave" I started to panic because I was obviously dying of poetry. The woman had no compassion and I saw in her eyes that at best she understood every other, other word of this guys super chesty gesture dark sky twighlight type poetry, giving her a cold immunity to the bad taste of the situation.

I started finally listening as my bad poetry shields were weakened by the smell of sweat and unwashed lower body parts cause I slid to the floor to try and stop the blood from going to my brain or sleep it off but as I heard the "epilouge 2 lead to epilouge 3 and 4 and to walk down the tormented corridor of this poor rich kid turned poet, seeing the curtains blowin in the wind of mammas 16 room mansion but there was no vampire chicks or enourmous blood flow in all this, there was a television star offering me a coca cola light in a tragic tone as deeply felt as a fantastic pay off cause this dude is killing only himself in here, nobody wanted to stay. I wanted to make the rare mistake of screaming " let me outta here!" "I cant stand this", "I'm dying of bad poetry." When finally we were freed of this art so bad I could no longer believe I was finally free to talk simply and slowly, about life and beer and all the things that normally ride Saturday like a fresh bicycle and not its horrid crash. Thank you Lanificio 25, this has been a review by Napoli super arts magazine, Tommy Getamongo, poetry correspondent